Tagged: “Moya Cannon”
A word does not head out alone.
It is carried about the way something essential,
a blade, say, or a bowl,
is brought from here to there when there is work to be done.
This week, we continue to look back through The Wake Forest Series of Irish Poetry as we prepare to publish Volume IV. Today we’re featuring Moya Cannon from Volume II, whose subtle yet distinct voice demands a reader’s attention. Her poems are largely preoccupied with the sphere of landscapes, and how human desire—sometimes expressed through the invocation of Greek myths—is interwoven into…Continue Reading
Scar Why does it affect and comfort me the little scar where, years ago, you cut your lip shaving when half drunk and in a hurry to play drums in public. We step now to rhythms we don’t own or understand, and, with blind, dog-like diligence, we hunt for scars in tender places. –Moya Cannon,…Continue Reading
Milk Could he have known that any stranger’s baby crying out loud in a street can start the flow? A stain that spreads on fustian or denim. This is kindness which in all our human time has refused to learn propriety, which still knows nothing but the depth of kinship, the depth of thirst. –Moya…Continue Reading
Introductions Some of what we love we stumble upon— a purse of gold thrown on the road, a poem, a friend, a great song. And more discloses itself to us— a well among green hazels, a nut thicket— when we are worn out searching for something quite different. And more comes to us, carried as…Continue Reading
We felt this poem about pollen by Moya Cannon was incredibly appropriate this week as the season changes from winter to spring. You can read more of her poetry in our anthology The Wake Forest Series of Irish Poetry, Volume II. Pollen And this dust survives through the death of ages. It sleeps in deep…Continue Reading
The cover art on The Wake Forest Series of Irish Poetry, Volume II to the casual observer may seem a tad too modernist or minimalist to garner any serious, long-term reflection. It could be say, a fork and a crumpled foil wrapper, or perhaps a field goal being kicked for those of us (yes, myself included)…Continue Reading